Atlas shrugged

There's no such thing as catching up when it feels like not a day has passed. Not with him. He's not unfamiliar with judgments. He just never cared to dole them out or let them stick. It's not to say he hasn't been called everything but a child of God. He has; simply for living his life how he saw fit. But still, he is one. Underground the sounds of the E train occasionally drowned out his sentences- but never once his sincerity. He looked weary but not worn. A resolute certainty replaced the whimsical look I've grown to know in his eyes. "I fucked up." The words came from a proverbial punched gut on the mend and for an instant- they sounded like my own truth. No more crestfallen than I was when it all happened to me on opposite sides; in parallel universes. A similar collapse in a different time. But it was my time to listen. And I did. I owe him that much after years of spilling tears into my cup of International coffee and his open ear. After years of overflowing ashtrays and heartbreaking songs on repeat. But he never judged me. Not once. And when he admonished me, it was from a place of such genuine love that I was better for it. Always. We stood there on that platform doused in separate antidotes of saki and sangria, years wiser but still so young. Still vulnerable and imperfect. Still brother and sister despite lack of DNA and regional closeness. I heard every word as I studied the flecks of gray in his goatee. My own wiry grays quietly outlining my freshly washed mane. I used to joke and say, "Quick! Smell my hair!" He never would, as big brothers don't do that sort of thing. He couldn't be caught off-guard. Once though, when there was nothing left to do but hold me close as I broke down- he told me this was a fucked up way to get him to finally smell my hair. His plan worked and I burst into laughter. It doesn't seem that long ago. Now we both have strains of gray. Shit.. when did we get so old? When did the problems become so real? As his train roared in there was so much I had to say. That time is the healthiest elixir, no matter how bitter. That it was okay to lose it after holding it together for so damn long. That these things tend to work themselves out. That I love him- pure and simple. Instead I looked at him and said, "Atlas shrugged." He agreed. And as we walked our ways from a rushed goodbye- he seemed lighter. We seemed lighter. Unburdened, at least for the moment.

"And tell me, Friend..how in the world have you been?"

The Middle Ground

"Be willing to surrender what you are for what you could become." -Author Unknown

There's an art to making the best of a bad situation.  Banksy knows it.  Gladys knew it.  I'm still getting there.  I know it takes a series of calculated steps and pointed decisions to get there.  Simply wishing doesn't make it so.  Sunnyside up.  The silver lining.  The glass half full.  All of these things- conjured up by the spirited people who forgo the negative in pursuit of more constructive endeavors.  I don't fault them.  I just don't always share their enthusiasm.  To me they seem capricious- these shiny happy people.  Although that's far from the sentiment I pick up from Gladys Knight and phantom guerrilla artist, Banksy.  They are well aware of how unpleasant the subject matter at hand is.  They just decided to put a spin on it- turn it sideways before setting it right side up for all to see.  I can respect that.  A new take.  A different outlook.  Something more beneficial or edifying than what is immediately presented. Look closer.  I get it.

Plenty of self-examination is the precursor to that.  I'm trying.  Really, I am.  For every bitter pill there's an elixir.  For every disappointment, a new revelation. It's never as bad as it once seemed.  Most people I know grew up in the same house since childhood.  Not me.  Starting from six years old to my late teens, I moved around neighboring towns almost every few years.  At one point, I stayed with friends and lived out of jumbo plastic garbage bags.  Now that it rests squarely on my shoulders- I'm settled.  For how long- is a fear that tries to slip in with the draft in a floorboard, but I chase it away.  And every now and then, when problems crowd my brain, I revisit all of those homes.  I park across the street and recall whatever I was going through when I resided there, no matter how brief.  I think about how unbearable it was at the time and realize that I made through that- so I can make it through this.  The look back isn't harmful as long as it's followed by a look ahead.

It was naive of me to think I was the only one who did this.  I truly believed I was until I read an article on Eminem in Spin magazine.  The interviewer followed him around to several places he had lived in Detroit as a youth. He spoke of doing this often when he was seeking perspective on where he presently was- whenever his hectic schedule allowed him to be in his hometown.  I instantly recognized my own movements in his.  The inherent need to be reminded that as shitty as it was back then- you made it through.  You. Made it. Through. Tougher, stronger, no worse for wear and grateful.  Reflection.  It's a countermeasure that works as long as it's properly applied.  If you start dwelling there or not wanting to move on to the next house or even head home, you've already fucked up.  I don't drive around to those old haunts as much as I used to.  I reserve those times for more pressing or melodramatic courses.  These days, I take a page out of Banksy's book.  See the beauty in the grit and discomfort of it all and show others what I'm made of; simply by showing it to myself.  Some may call that inspiration.  I call it middle ground.

Let the Bed Bug bite

When I was in the sixth grade, I wrote a story about a lipstick from the perspective of the lipstick.  I can remember getting a really high grade on it.  The teacher liked how I applied emotion to an inanimate object.  The details are fuzzy but I recall the lipstick being purchased from the cosmetic counter by a girl whose father thought she was too young to wear make-up.  She tried it on in private.  Held it close, hid it in her Hello Kitty purse.  She snuck it into school once and put it on before she spoke to a boy she liked.  Her dad found it one day. He snatched it from her, smashed the cap onto it before winding it down, and so on.  All of this from the point of view of the lipstick.  It was pretty cool. Anyway, recently I was looking for writing prompts and was reminded of that story. What follows is the result of that writing exercise. I had fun with it.  I may post more of these because I enjoyed revisiting the midset of being in my writing classes.  Here's the prompt:

 You return home from work to find a Dear John letter on your kitchen table. Oddly enough, it's from one of your favorite pieces of furniture. What does the letter say? 


Dear Jayne,

    I guess the gaping space in the bedroom is somewhat telling.  I wish it weren't this way.  It's only been about three years but I believe it's best if we part ways.  For now, anyway.  It's not that I don't feel appreciated- because I do.  The way you rotated me each  month and regularly changed my linens let me know that you cared about my well being.  When your brother-in-law built my base so you wouldn't lose things underneath me, I was relieved.  I know you hated misplacing earrings and hair clips under there.  But this is not about me.

    I was meant to improve your quality of life but it's just not happening.  You only just learned that I was called Cushion Cloud.  My pillow top used to lull you into blissful rest.  Somehow though, you forgot how useful I could be.  Languid sweat from bodies in motion has been replaced by tears.  You think I can't tell the difference in the saline? Ask yourself what happened.  How come I don't feel the weight of him anymore? One man.  I liked that you never brought strangers to lie in me.  I grew accustomed to the way you both held each other close in the middle of me.  And when asleep, secure in the knowledge that I was supporting you both, retreated to opposite sides.  Only to unite again when day broke.  He was in the habit of making me before he left.  I wish I could say the same for you- but I don't fault you for that.  You're always running.  Always late.  I know I'm the reason you sometimes chose a few minutes more of being cradled over making sure every hair was in place for work.  I know that takes time. You didn't mind oversleeping.  I want you to know that I understand how lonely it can be.  That's why you often fall asleep with books or the New York Times at the foot of me sometimes; the lamp still burning bright when your alarm sounds at 7:25 a.m.  I was all yours.  You'd lay diagonally, dead center and even upside-down on occasion.  Or you'd tear off articles of clothing in mid-slumber.  Leggings.  Socks. A bra left between the sheets here and there.  Panties rolled off in one swift movement; just so you could get more out your forty winks.  That made me happy.

  But I'm not happy anymore- because you're not happy anymore.  I won't be back until you are again.  I know you'll miss me when you're curled up on that too soft love seat, sinking each time you rest your bones.  It sounds strange but I want you to.  I want you to get busy living.  Live a life that makes you ready to collapse into a welcoming bed so that I may want to return.  Make no mistake; I don't want you to exhaust yourself.  You've done enough of that.  I just want you to even things out again.  Less tears.  More sleep.  Lovemaking at twilight. More dreams.  No nightmares. You deserve that.  I'll be back when it's time.

                                                                                   Yours truly,
                                                                                   The Mattress

P.S.  Just a last word of advice.  The sheepskin rug is nice but I hope you don't get on the floor to take your rest.  Too many unseen dust mites down there.  TTYS...hopefully.

     
                                       

Mary Mary, Quite Contrary

(Sigh) Where do I begin? Let's start by saying that no one has to agree with me on this one. This Bug is not afraid to hold an unpopular opinion. It's my opinion and there's nothing humble about it. It's mine. Also, I'm not the only one who feels this way. Awhile back, a good friend and I were talking and the same sentiment was expressed. I really thought it was just me! So let's cut straight to the chase. I miss Cokehead Mary. I miss raw Mary. I miss Mary who sang from a place that was heartfelt albeit troubled. Don't get me wrong. I'm just as glad as the next person that she got her life together, got married, found God and seems to be living a pretty stable life. But her music suffered. It seems like the soul of her songs has gone elsewhere. I don't know where- but it's just not present anymore. Mary seems to have more prosperous things at hand. Take for example, her latest perfume slinging endeavor on the Home Shopping Network.


My official WTF moment came recently when I was flipping through channels late one night and saw Ms. Blige on HSN. Huh? Really Mary...Really? I don't know about you but this pretty much sealed the deal for me. It's bad enough her music lost that...oomph once she straightened up her life but seriously, selling a fragrance named after the classic album that solidified her as the Queen of Hip Hop Soul is just disrespectful to her own legacy if you ask me. I said it before. I grew up with Mary. She saw me through trials and tribulations of my own young life and I'm eternally grateful that her music was present in those trying times. It's that fact that makes it hard for me to accept the boring, humdrum, commercial Pop star cut-out that she has devolved into. Show of hands...who remembers raw Mary? Mary J. Blige circa '93. Yeah...that one.


When Mary was in her heyday- she was the quintessential 'hood chick that I could relate to. She belted out her songs over some bass heavy beats and she held her own with her Hip Hop contemporaries. She was that cool ass chick. Her music and persona seemed to channel the tragic soulfulness of Billie Holiday. In fact, I'll go as far as saying that she was my generation's Billie. No one knew just how deep her troubles ran with former boyfriend, K-Ci. It wasn't until years later she spoke of her abusive and drug-laden relationship with the former Jodeci member. Looking back on it, they might have been the 90's version of Ike and Tina. I dunno. What I do know is that her music resonated with me on the deepest level before she started doing duets with Elton John and George Michael. Make no mistake- I'm not knocking her musical and professional growth one bit. But Mary and Meth...Mary and Keith Murray...Mary and Grand Puba...we'll never see anything like that happen again. Mark my words. She's good and gone and she ain't lookin' back. It's almost as if everything and everyone from that time period had to go. A clearcut case of throwing the baby out with the bathwater if you ask me.

Anyway, this is not about 'hateration' or 'holleration' in this Danceree...(Boy, she lost me on that one. I cannot stand that song to this day.) I don't even doubt the sincerity of her music. I just want to express how much I miss the Mary I once knew and loved. She had spunk. She would cuss you out. And she wasn't afraid to show vulnerability. It seems the new and improved Mary is so empowered that she forgot all about the rest of us. Those who need to hear that we're not the only ones feeling less than stellar sometimes. I understand it's about No More Drama- but it seems like she forfeited so much while declaring that. I don't care if she has more money. The wardrobe and hair has always been tight. That's a part of what made her Mary. But something is missing now. Should I just get over it? Pick up the phone and order a bottle of My Life along with a free sassy little clutch bag? I just can't see it. Sorry. No. Tell the truth. When's the last time she released a joint that could even compare to I Love You with Smif n Wesson? Or a true to life anthem like Not Gon' Cry? If there's a way she can return to the impassioned renditions of her tunes and the 'round the way girl collaborations with real emcees (Um, yeah Drake.. relax for a sec, please) without having to do a bump off her dressing room vanity mirror- This Bug is all for it. But if a shot of Henny brings it all back, I mean raw, circa 93 Mary- then I say we sneak some into her freshly squeezed OJ backstage, sit back and wait for her to buss out with the You Don't Have to Worry remix. Somebody call Craig Mack. I'm ready to do this.

Until then...

Not so long ago

I fell in love for the first time when I was five years old. He was tall, dark and handsome. He had hands that could heal every hurt and words that made everything that was wrong with the world right in an instant. One day, I went to the bank with this man. There were velvet ropes sectioning off the line. Heavy, U-shaped velvet ropes that sometimes keep club goers in line on the street. Not the straight elasticized ones you see in banks nowadays. I detached my hand from his just long enough to entertain myself by skipping back and forth over these ropes. Hop. Hop. Back. Forth. He trained his eyes on me and said, "Jayne, stop that." There was no discernible anger in his voice. Not even the slightest bit of annoyance in the warning. It was simply an instruction. For some reason I took it as my cue to jump over one last time- and then I'd surely find something else to satisfy my idleness. But one inexact movement was all it took. On my final skip, my foot hooked the bottom of the weighty rope and brought down the poles which the ropes were suspended on. Down one by one. Like dominoes. Like giant, Stone Henge dominoes. Everyone stopped and stared. My face grew hot and the tears spilled immediately. I felt an embarrassment that was so new, so foreign to me at such a young age. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole. At least then, I'd be out of sight from so many appalled pairs of eyes. My shame was quickly eclipsed by the abject fear of the consequences of not listening to this man standing before me. But not for long. In one swift movement he scooped me off my feet where the last pole lay on its side. I bawled. I was inconsolable. When I could finally speak- I could only manage to wail, "I....Sorry Daddy...I'm sorry." There, at the teller's window, impervious to the toppled poles and judging eyes... he said calmly into my hair, "It's alright, Dahlin'. Yuh wit me. With me."

Happy Father's Day, Daddy.

Thriller in Manila

I wasn't looking for them. As a matter of fact, I wasn't even looking for the box they were nestled in- waiting to be found. I was just there to pick up a few odds and ends to bring to my new digs. It's weird. The way the past can sometimes drift out to you from forgotten boxes. It peels your eyelids back and turns a crank in the brain that you long believed was rusted from disuse. But belief is a peculiar thing. I didn't always know that everything begins with just that. The slightest speck of belief. The tiniest iota of intangible hope wrapped gingerly in a ribbon of faith. Everything is as it should be. Once the clicking in my head stopped, there they were. All of them. Lydia. Rex. Stacy. Champ. Vincent. Nalia. People on paper I assumed had died or withered away with time and circumstance. Characters who were balled up and tossed before they ever had a chance to be fleshed out- but somehow missed the waste basket. There must be reason. I'm sitting here, pondering what to do with these people. Their stories. My story...but not entirely. I suppose I never stopped writing it. I just needed to breathe. Open up the door on my chest. Step in...have a look around. I got so lost there. Living, loving, learning. Drinking in moments and drowning in real life; that I'd forgotten my obligation. It's akin to birthing a child and forgetting to feed it. How does that happen? She wrote, "I mean, you've been through a lot and fought and lost and fought and won." I knew it was it the truth when I read it- but I honestly never viewed it that way until then. It matters not how the ball was dropped. It is my duty to pick it up with both hands and hurl it around the globe, or at the very least- as far as belief can carry it. And now, after meeting them all again in that manila envelope, I remember my obligation to write their story. My story. But not.

Entirely.

Pricey Java, Priceless Times

"Friendship isn't a big thing - it's a million little things." ~Author Unknown

We're offered the couch in the furthermost corner of the coffeehouse. It's erratically decorated and dimly lit. The one place that's Halloween all year round but never creepy. Instead, it's cozy. And prime for catch-up conversation over Ginger Peach Tea and a tall Hot Cocoa. This meeting is impromptu and long overdue. So much is always happening in our individual lives. We keep missing each other for some reason or another, but not tonight. Tonight we relate and debate. Speak of love and changes and how love changes everything. He is one of my few touchstones. He knows what's going on without my having to relay the gory details but still listens intently; not just awaiting his chance to speak. By the time my chocolate pecan pie arrives, we're up to speed and still giggling at my sorry attempt at replicating their recipe. "I think it was too much corn syrup. But... it smelled just like this." Deep down, we both know I was cursed by the Witches for trying to copy something so divine as their ethereal pastries. We share secrets and a gallon of laughter that may as well be wine. I am giddy. Our time is nothing short of rejuvenating. As always. We make plans for the weekend. A clash for sure; since his life is a whirlwind of festivities in comparison to my homebody habits. He is wise beyond his years and too fashionable for his own good.
He is, quite simply, a treasure.

No Coincidence

My father hates policemen. Always has. Always will. In 1958 there were constables installed on President Wiseman Avenue in Port of Spain, Trinidad- donned in crisp khaki shirts and black shorts that stopped just below the knee. At 10:15 p.m. a solitary telephone rings at 45 Duke Street. Stella does not have long, it seems. An aneurysm they say. To my 13 year old father it is no different from a heart attack or hearing that she has been hit by the Number 2 bus. He is alone in the house. Dashing about, he grabs his paperboy hat and a poem he wrote for her earlier at school. Hopping on his bicycle, he races down to the hospital to kiss the grandmother I will never meet.

Curfew has been instated to curb recent gang activity. Since then- bottles no longer rain from the roofs of local Rum Shops along Wiseman and Maraval Avenue. He is nearly out of breath and approaching Pitch Lake when Constable John stops him in his tracks. "Ay boy, whuh yuh doin' out pas' curfew on a Wednesday?" It is not so much a question as it is an accusation. My father gives pause to slow his heartbeat. He has already ridden three miles nonstop. "Is meh muddah, Sir. They tell meh she catch a stroke an' cyah move. But..." More gulps for air. "She wake up askin' for meh, Sir." He eyes my father dubiously. "Name, Boy?" My father has no time but obliges. "Neverow, Sir. Kenneth Neverow." Before I am a twinkle in his eye, the distrust for uniformed officers is already forming in my DNA. Constable John glowers at him. "Please Sir. They say she don't have long. An' she askin' for me at the hospital." The air is still- save for distant tires rolling on pavement two blocks over. "You ain't goin' to no friggin' hospital dis time of night! The closest one is a next five miles into town. Who you wit', Boy?! Silk Hats? Desperados? Nah- yuh look like one of dem Renegade boys." A droplet of sweat trails down my father's arm- shocking him into perfect posture. His despair is taking root. "No gang, Sir. I promise you. My mother is sick. That is the only reason I am out past curfew. Perhaps you may accompany me, Sir. Then you'll see." His invitation to the truth only agitates the constable. For a moment his scowl softens to a smile...but it is a mockery. "An' yuh speak the Queen's English when yuh ready, eh? Impressive."

"Alright Renegade. I believe you. Yuh have to go and catch yuh dyin' mother. If you willing to ride, you must be willing to run." In a swift motion he knocks my father off the seat of his bike. His knee opens up from breaking the fall. White flesh first, then tiny beads of red. Twenty-nine years later I will nurse a similar but very different wound while learning to ride my first two-wheeler. I will howl through tears- but he feels no pain upon impact. With one arm the officer lifts the bike and hurls it into the lake on the outskirts of Savannah Park. It sinks quickly. Only soft ripples give any indication of the malice that put it there, taking most of my young father's faith in mankind with it. "I thought you was in a rush, Boy? Run! You can run the rest of the way." With no hesitation my father takes his dismissal and bolts, blood now coloring his left ankle sock. He runs into darkness lit occasionally by garish orange street lights that still blink on at dusk in Trinidad. Heaving, he swings blindly into St. Mary's Hospital- mangled knee and all. A stabbing pain in his side from not stopping. He will not feel the sting on both palms where gravel was embedded until he looks down at his hands two hours later.

Stella Neverow expired at 12:12 a.m. With her she took line-dried Indian Cotton tablecloths, an all-knowing smile and meat pies at Christmastime. No goodbyes were exchanged between mother and son. There is no exact science. It may be Osmosis; or through some loyalty with no name that I inherited this strange conjecture, this deep-seated resentment where lawmen are concerned. Years later he coolly tells me why he believes in miracles. "...because I'll walk on water before I walk on eggshells for some arrogant cop son-of-a-bitch." My father hates policemen. Always has. Always will.

Not just material things

From Gregory Stock's Book of Questions, I am asked: Your house, containing everything you own, catches fire; after saving your loved ones and pets, you have time to safely make a final dash to save any one item. What would it be?

Her voice is as clear as the Christmas Day I unwrap the box almost twenty years earlier. "When I'm dead and gone- you can tell people this is the nicest thing your mother ever got for you." Nestled in the glass globe is a teddy bear atop a rocking horse. Iridescent glitter falls softly around them with a turn of the wrist. There is just enough water within to create the snowy, floating effect. He wears baby blue overalls and one eye is slightly bigger than the other. No doubt an inexact movement of the artist's hand- but it lends to the bear's charm. He holds on for dear life to the white horse with the yellow saddle. The horse's eyes are blank. Fulfilling its equine duties with resignation. They rock to Brahm's Lullaby when the turnkey is wound; the noisy coils inside rivaling the soft music. I guard it with the province of a sentry.

I would always run back for that water globe. Because it is indeed the nicest thing she ever gave me. Because she is gone now. Because I'd brave fire and more- just to have a small piece of her for all time.

To All the Toys I Loved Before

Recently I was strolling down Memory Lane via some old photo albums from my childhood and it was pointed out to me that every year Christmases were good to me. Really good. Like, every year. At first I protested but the longer I looked- the truer it became. On almost every page are pictures of me surrounded by mountains of festive wrapping paper. You have to look closely to find me at the center of all of it- proudly brandishing the next new indulgence. I have to say that by no means was I a spoiled child. Let's clear that up right now. I just so happen to be the baby, which ordinarily by default would mean I was spoiled. Not so. You see, there is a considerable age difference between myself and two older sisters (who are only one year apart) and for that reason, I was left to my own devices. My parents seemed to understand that, which explains why Christmases were so good. They just didn't want me to be lonely or bored. Lord help them if I got bored. Kidding!

So this stroll I took made me think of all the toys I had over the years. A few stand out to me and it's those that I want to share with you. I can't be the only one who delighted in these 80's throwbacks so...let's do this, shall we?

Simon Says

I attribute a lot of my hand-eye coordination today to this nifty little gadget of yesteryear. What can I say. It made cool noises and had primary colors. Kept me occupied for hours... or so it seemed.


Cabbage Patch Kids

Okay, I'll be honest here. These dolls were ugly and I never liked them. But they were all the rage and my parents seemed to think I deserved one. It came with an official birth certificate and a signature stitched into the ass for authenticity. Not making that up, Folks. I could have lived without this mush-mouthed doll but I was never ungrateful. They also had a very specific smell. It was weird. Like that new car smell you come to know as an adult. They were probably pumped full of chemicals for all I know.

Operation

This was my shit! Another coordination honer. I loved this game! The toughest removal was the Charlie Horse. The Funny Bone was no cakewalk either. It was this game that made me realize that my father missed his calling as a surgeon. He made it look effortless. Seriously.


Atari 2600

This was more like a gift for my sisters than myself, but I still got a lot of run on it. I was sick with Pitfall! and Missile Command. My middle sister was the reigning Pacman queen in our household for a long time. She had a way of laying in the cut and letting all the ghosts get right up on her before she ate a power pellet and took them all out in one fell swoop. Sometimes she took too long. They ate her. She got pissed. We laughed at her. She got really pissed. We laughed harder.

Teddy Ruxpin

This adorable storytelling bear was so very charming. The best part of his charm was when I took out the story tapes he came with and popped in my sister's UTFO tape instead. To watch his lips rhyme the words to Roxanne, Roxanne was something that made my day. Ditto for Doug E. Fresh's La Di Da Di. "You can't have me. I'm too young for you, B*tch." His eyes rocked back and forth like he was really feelin' it, too. Ah...good times.

Etch-A-Sketch

Try as I may, I was never able to master this one. I recently played with one my nephew had and I still cannot create anything more recognizable than the New York City skyline. And by skyline I mean two identical buildings that resemble the Twin Towers and one on a slant that passes for the Chrysler building if you close one eye and hold it upside-down.

Plastic Charm Necklaces

Mannn...Listen. You couldn't tell me nuthin'! I was a Fly Girl when these hit the scene. I had every charm you could think of. It made no sense. This is when my mild OCD started revealing itself to me by the way. I didn't care if they were different colors. I couldn't have the lipstick charm right next to the tennis racket. You had to have a theme, Dammit! And that took some time to make happen. Perhaps too much time.

Anyway, I can go on but I think that might nullify the point I was trying to make about not being spoiled. For the record, my definition of a spoiled child is not one who has a gaggle of toys to play with and wants for nothing. It's a child who is never satisfied and believes that they should have something simply because they desire it. I was no Veruca Salt. That was never my mindset as a child. I was always pleasantly surprised and very grateful inside and out. Except for when I got that hideous Cabbage Patch Doll. Shhh...don't tell anyone.

There's Something About Mary

I just don't feel Mary the way I used to. I was discussing this fact the other day and realized that I've felt this way for some time. The last time I saw her perform live- I quietly decided it was the last time I ever needed to. It was much like wordlessly saying goodbye to a friend you can no longer grow with. Rather than tell you how much I cannot relate to her music anymore, I invite you all to take a rather personal walk with me and the Queen of Hip Hop Soul through my life, her music and the ties that bound us together for a time.

What's the 411

I was fifteen. Fresh-faced and invincible. What stands out most to me about this album was how much my sister- pregnant with my first nephew at the time, absolutely hated to hear this tape being played. She claimed it made her nauseous. Along with my Paul Mitchell hairspray which she forced me to apply in the driveway each morning. Did I care? Hell No. You could still hear Changes I've Been Going Through at the highest decibel everyday from my room. That is still the standout track to me. That and Reminisce. There's nothing quite like those innocent make-out sessions in the basement before your parents get home, is there? Ah, the memories. The 411 Remix Album drops and I'm right in step with her. As the needle drags across the original You Remind Me Greg Nice is infatuated and in love...and I think I am too.

My Life
It's my senior year and Mary is telling me that she knows it's hard but we will get by. And not a moment too soon. It was a harrowing year. My first love had abandoned me for the military just when I needed him the most. Shortly thereafter, things unravel with blinding speed. I found my entire family disbanded for a moment. Bills go unpaid. I bounce between staying with friends and my sister and keep mostly to myself. I am living out of suitcases. No one understands but Mary. For the first time in My Life, I visit my father at a modest hotel room which he calls home for roughly a month. It crushes me. I cry nightly, get high daily. I'm Goin' Down. I get called down to the Guidance Office and am told I am not looking at a June graduation. I nearly give up. All I want to do is Be Happy. Things eventually turn around; my family all under one roof again. Months later we drive to my high school graduation- tears in my eyes as I secretly thank Mary for pulling me through.

Share My World

This album finds me three years out of high school and no closer to a plan for success. While most of my friends are off at college- I hang on the hope of a student visa in order to attend. I work. I go home. I work. This pattern becomes so mundane that I take up Tai Chi just to break up the monotony. To hear Mary tell it- Love Is All We Need but I feel enormously removed from that credo. I'm Searching for a deeper purpose. She is asking the same questions I am, but with a smoky-voiced elegance I can only dream of during my shower concerts. (The acoustics are always better in there.) I'm just living the day-to-day and I decide that I'm Not Gon' Cry about all the unfairness that seems to have consumed my young life. There had to be more in store for me.

Mary
The year 2000 brings her self titled album- and with it, my own stroke of independence and self declaration. I feel stronger than I have in years. Time and circumstance has shown me where everyone fits into my life. Much like her album cover, my scars are also visible but I find it beautifully human and strong. I wear it proudly. And even though I was Not Lookin' , I meet someone who adores Ms. Blige in same fashion as I do. He tells me her voice speaks to his soul. That she is the truth and when truth like that exists, it is not only heard but felt. Suddenly, I'm In Love again. "Never felt nothing that so good before- Only you can open the door." All That I Can Say is... loving him is wonderful. And that almost carries me through for a time.

No More Drama

This is where things start to take a turn. Mary sings of letting go of everything that has weighed her down. Over the Young and the Restless piano keys- she tells of freeing herself from the negativity. I feel her on it. I'm just sorta caught up in my own personal stuff a bit too much to wholeheartedly relate. I spend my nights tending bar and skipping songs on the jukebox when this CD is selected. Plus, Ja Rule taking the ride with her on Rainy Dayz turns me off a bit. I miss her collaborating with the likes of CL Smooth and Keith Murray. It was raining for me and it seemed Ms. Blige was stepping into the sunshine. Was I stuck in the past? No. Was I hating? Absolutely not. But I didn't feel moved by the album.

Love And Life

While this album should have been my soundtrack at the time, it was actually just a painted on layer of what I projected. Ooh! finds me singing along to an Ed OG and the Bulldogs beat, promising to cook and clean. And why not? It was damn near Love @ 1st Sight. Below the exterior however, I learn that married life can be a rollercoaster. But I find myself Willing and Waiting for my other half to catch up to my level of commitment. It feels like an uphill battle. Amid that, my closest friend loses four family members in one horrific night. I feel helpless. I experience nightmares. There is no comfort in music, but it is not Mary's fault. I take a good look around and realize that it is no one's fault. There is love. There is life. And some things so tragic in between that not even songs can remedy.

The Breakthrough

Though I never owned the album, I knew that Mary was telling someone I can't Be Without You. I do remember feeling that way once. At about this point is where we unofficially parted ways. We simply weren't seeing eye to eye anymore. I was happy for her new found love and marital bliss, but mine was slowly winding down to discord. Actually it was at this concert tour that I decided there would be no need to get alerts from Ticketmaster when she was in NYC. This night was memorable due to a very specific incident that remains forever bookmarked for me. One thing was true, though. You can't keep a Good Woman Down.


Growing Pains

Time brings inevitable growth. It brings blossoming and withering. By this time, I'm a Grown Woman. Apparently, my girl Mary is doing Just Fine and even makes me do a double take past the mirror and appreciate God's design! How about that? This CD was actually a Christmas gift from the man who I once joked was more than welcome to run off with his honey, Mary- because she...and she alone was woman enough to take him away from me. Things are awkward, but we manage to keep it cordial that holiday- no longer sharing a home or a life for that matter. Only a surname. I continue on my path alone. On my darker days, I too wish that I could Fade Away. "And it feels like joy. And it feels like pain. Feels like sunshine, feels like rain. An excuse for dying. Reason to live. And if you don't know..." that's What Love Is.

A friend hears the song in my heart and sings it to me when my memory fails.-- Anonymous

Mary J. Blige and I have been through the best and the worst of times. Leggings and combat boots. Baseball caps. Classy coats, fly shoes and numerous hairstyles. Lonely holidays and sleepless nights. Quests for love and self discovery. She told me that You Gotta Believe, and I did. Mary is woven throughout my life lessons of friendships and relationships. And like many of those in my life- we walked our path until we could no longer go on together; each knowing that there once was a time when we truly connected. No regrets.

True Stories from the Discotheque

Picture it. NYC. The year is 2000. Fresh off the Y2K hysteria that turned out to be a lot of anticlimactic hullabaloo, the party scene is in full swing once again. Not that it ever truly went anywhere, but those of you who say you didn't stock up on those canned goods and bottled water might be stretching the truth just a tad. And those of you who weren't secretly hoping the New Millennium would all but wipe out that sorry-ass credit score are just flat out lying...

Anyway, I hit the club with my brother-from-another, Staybent. The drinks were flowing. The music was blaring; and everyone was still partying like it was 1999. For some reason, I can remember Black Rob's Whoa playing repeatedly throughout the night. After 2.5 hours, it was starting to get on my nerves. So much so, that I was determined to find my wingman and get out of there as soon as I found the little girls' room. Navigating through that murky sea of drunk folk however, proved no small feat.

As I was making my way through the crowd I felt a firm grasp on my elbow. I follow the hand to see who is attached to it. It was some dude I used to work with back in my flower slingin' days. Sidebar: I once got a crank caller in the wee hours of the overnight shift. After my standard greeting, 'Thank you for calling 1-800-Flowers. How may I assist you?' a sleazy voice asks if I know the difference between an 800 number and a 900 number. Before I could hang up he barks into my headset- "It means I get to fuck you for free! Hahahaha." Click. One of the more memorable cranks, I must admit.

So, this dude holding my arm starts to go on and on about how he always wanted to talk to me at work but couldn't work up the nerve, blah,blah,blah. By now he is leaning in and completely invading my personal space. This must be fate, blah,blah,blah. Let me call you, please. Ad nauseam.
I employ every line in the book to deflect his advances. He then resorts to scrawling his number onto a napkin. He folds it into my palm with a salacious grin and whispers, "Just take it. You never know when it will come in handy." I wave him off, my quest to get home undeterred. I felt like Dorothy, only three clicks of my Eff-me pumps got me nowhere. I tried.

I locate the Ladies Room and after four very tall Belvedere and Crans, I rush into the stall to handle my ladylike business. My relief is quickly replaced with despair when I find that there is NO toilet paper in sight and I'm alone in the bathroom. Great. What to do... Then I remember the napkin in my clutch purse. Ever so carefully and ink-side down of course- I do what needs to be done and hot-step it out of there. Oh, the irony of his words. I never saw him again but to this day- I wonder if he'll ever know just how close he got to the good stuff.

Now dat's Whoa!


Photo courtesy Corbis

What I know now

The best piece of advice I ever received was, “One hand don’t clap.” The source was my father. Yes. My resilient and seemingly all-knowing father gave me this furtherance. I remember it clearly because it came at a time that marked the end of my puppy love and the onset of self-diagnosed, incurable heartbreak. Lost in short-lived memories, I sat at the kitchen table staring blankly out of the sliding doors leading to our deck. My coffee sat, half-drunk and tepid before me. I felt just like the cup, well on its way to emptying itself down the drain. At least, that’s what I thought.

He walked into the room quietly, careful not to yank the hostess from her grand pity party. This was the hardest morning I had awoken to in a very long time. An ache had settled itself in my core. A stubborn lump rested in my throat and I dared not speak. I feared an ocean tears would be triggered. I feared crying myself blind. He lifted the kettle to fill it, only to replace it having seen that I had left just enough water for him. As he stirred his coffee, he never looked up. He sat across from me and then looked me straight in the eye. “You know, there’s only one thing that makes me sad in this world. And that is when any one of you all is feeling pain and there is nothing I can do to take it away.” By ‘you all’, I knew he meant my two older sisters and me. He was, with all of his being, ready to lay his life down for any one of us at a moment’s notice. I knew this, understood it wholly, but it brought me no comfort given my current condition.

I tuned out his presence to examine my plight. What had gone wrong? My thoughts on love were so simple at this green age. I thought that as long as I gave what was needed, I would get the same in return. Instead, I received a mountain of unfilled promises. I likened it to watching a ticker tape parade marching by from inside a desolate house. The whole world was going on gleefully, and I had no one. I was too young to know that love was not necessarily an even exchange. Sometimes, it was far more taxing than it was rewarding. That a partnership or relationship of any functionality required effort on both parts, but was not guaranteed. So many nights I lay, clutching my heart overwhelmed by the depths of unrequited love. It just wasn’t fair. Entranced by a slide show behind my eyes, I saw moments of firsts replaying themselves. First meeting, first kiss, and the first time to share myself with another human being. I would never be the same. Instantly the tears welled and I began to quake. Inconsolably, I sobbed for ten minutes that seemed everlasting. He allowed me to cry, knowing then what I know now; that this was all part of healing my heart. A good cry refreshes the soul and replenishes the spirit. It was the first of many to come.

Finally, he rose from his seat to leave me in my despair, but not before he poured these words over my hair as salve. “Sweetheart, one hand don’t clap. Remember that.” As he walked out of the kitchen, I ingested what he said. No sweeping exits or off-stage lines. I thought I heard the fanning of a solitary hand, seeking out another that simply was not there. The curtain was closing on my devotion after the dance and I could hear nothing.

These days, that sage advice holds true to this day. When I find myself giving a tireless effort to a lost cause, my father's words return to me. Anything worth having is worth fighting for, but there are times when you have to accept that if you are doing it all by yourself- perhaps it just should not be. It is true: One hand indeed cannot clap, but to append to my learned words of wisdom, all you have to do is be still. Listen closely, because that silence may tell you all that you need to know. It is one of the bravest things you can do.

525,600 minutes later

in Ourglass

it took me
2 seconds to dial
3 rings for an answer
approximately 7 minutes to hear
that I should be nowhere
near O'Hare
in 14 years.
time is relative.
they say
to make perfume from an iris-
you have to mash the roots
but leave the petals
intact.
the only thing
that lives is
the fragrance
of such a grisly task.
it took us 12 weeks
to learn that
some skeletons
are not made
only of bone.
and once you know
where they rest-
should neither be
unearthed
or buried.

Lifelong Learning

Every now and then, if you’re fortunate enough- you cross paths with a remarkable person that makes quite an impact on your life. In some way or another, they make the world a better place by simply being themselves. Over the years there have been a precious few that hold that distinction for me, but this is dedicated to one in particular.

Almost everyone that walked the hallways of Uniondale High School can recall a teacher by the name of Mr. Chu. I say this because there were plenty of students who were not ‘officially’ enrolled in his class that still came away with a sufficient knowledge of Photography. Way before I learned what purpose an aperture served or how to manipulate ambient light- I learned what it was like to be yourself and embrace it. Chu Man, as he was so oft referred to as- was by far the coolest teacher in that institution. Everyone loved him, and I believe it had a lot to do with him just being himself. He possessed such a genuine manner that was never forced. Some teachers are totally removed from the student experience by default. They form quick opinions of whom they perceive as rabble-rousers, make snap judgments and decide that there is nothing they haven’t seen or heard during their tenure. But Mr. Chu was different. He was never so world-weary that he tuned out what was relevant. Trust me. He may have been the only staff member at the time who knew Hip-Hop even had a pulse before it got all “blinged out”. He seemed to understand that teaching was an exchange rather than a one-way street. We learned from him, and he from us.

There are some teachers who immediately want to show you who’s boss. Then there are those who try so hard to be cool it is transparently phony. Neither was his style. He somehow walked a line of his own with dexterity…and made it look effortless. Mr. Chu had an open-door policy. He treated troublemakers and straight-A students with impartiality. (Yours truly fell somewhere in between.) I think he was much more comfortable in the knowledge that droves of kids opted for his class, rather than leave school grounds to find inevitable trouble. I witnessed firsthand what some may classify as the most “unreachable” of pupils take a heartfelt interest in learning something new. And it was all because of Mr. Chu. We were accepted without being molded by an iron fist. He had our respect without ever having to demand it. That in itself was an estimable art form.

I don’t want to sound as if I’m eulogizing someone that is no longer with us. He is still very much alive, and thanks to the great age of online social networking, sharing other aspects of his life with Alums who admire him just as much- if not more than in the bygone days of Photo lab. That photography lab is now defunct. It has been transformed into what I can only call a depressingly modernized box. Four walls, devoid of the spirit that once inhabited that space. And Mac computers everywhere. Copy. Paste. Print. Gone are the days of having your 35mm camera for the weekend. The darkroom, the chemicals and the indescribable fulfillment that came with watching a perfect image materialize from a once watery tray.

The soul of that place is gone. Chu all but took it with him upon retirement. To many of us, he was that studio. But what I hold near and dear are the memories that were constructed in that studio. I have a myriad of black and white photos that capture my youth, my friendships and my peculiar fashion choices from back then. All those seemingly minuscule things that in retrospect; have a great deal to do with the person I am today. I consider myself blessed to have ever been in his class- where he taught us the importance of being true to oneself, by none other than example. The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires. Without realizing it, we learned to develop character along with those negatives. He may never know just where his influence stops. Truly of a different ilk, I tip my hat in reverence to the Chu Man.

There can never be another.